


Five-On-One

by beersforqueers



Series: Hockey AU [4]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Detroit Red Wings, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Sex Toys, all the porn, so filthy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 06:49:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8046406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beersforqueers/pseuds/beersforqueers
Summary: Sokka and Zuko are co-workers, playing for the same NHL team, trying to cope with a summer apart the only way they know how. 
Phone sex.





	Five-On-One

**Author's Note:**

> I have no self control. Here. Have more.
> 
> Inspiration for the name (besides the sport of hockey): [the cold open of Letterkenny](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9rSBmOgpcDE). GO WATCH IT NOW. IT IS HILARIOUS.

Zuko leaves Sokka at the end of June.

It’s nothing dramatic on Sokka’s end, he waves goodbye as Zuko packs up his stuff and leaves for California to sell his old house and box up his shit. His dad and sister are out there and he was only renting an apartment in Winnipeg, but now there’s an unspoken agreement that he’s moving here. For good.

That being said, the off-season is so _booooring_ without him, and Sokka is spending a lot of time convincing himself that Zuko’s big move has nothing to do with him. The city’s on an upswing and Zuko’s a franchise player, the kind of guy they’ll keep around for a good long while, if not his entire career.

Just 'cause Sokka wants him around too doesn’t mean it’s mutual.

Even if the “L” word has been knocked around a whole lot lately.

The biggest issue Sokka has right now is that he fucking misses Zuko. It hasn’t even been that long, and they’ve talked, yeah, but Zuko is busy, is shitty about checking his phone, etc., etc. Sokka takes some time off the second Zuko leaves, drives up north and camps on the beach, the white sand deserted as far as he can see. The lake is sparkling blue, so crystal clear to the bottom that he can see the little freshwater fish swimming along below him fifty yards out.

He watches the sun set over the water.

He considers getting a dog.

He tries to remember how he managed his sexual frustration before meeting Zuko, then remembers he’d just go get his dick sucked at one of the gay bars twenty minutes north of his house.

Sokka considers trying to suck his own dick.

Sokka nearly sprains a rib and gets the stink eye from the team doc.

By the time he starts summer training, he’s skittish, snappier than usual, and really, really mopey.

“Aaaang,” he moans, flopping over the edge of the bar. They’re at a new place in Midtown, sitting on some aesthetic stools made from fucking reclaimed factory floorboards and old shoe leather. Sokka doesn’t pretend to understand the appeal, but as long as the hipster white dude next to him keeps his suede chukka sneakers to himself, he’ll survive. He is not in the mood for footsie with a man wearing a floral button up.

Okay, he shouldn’t judge the shirt. It is not the shirt’s fault that its owner isn’t Zuko.

Sokka orders three servings of the pork fat French fries to make himself feel better, because sneaky meat dipped in sriracha mayo is one hipster thing he can get behind.

“Sooookka,” Aang echoes, and wrinkles his nose when Sokka waves a fry at him. “Those aren’t vegetarian,” he complains.

“I know,” Sokka sighs happily, then sighs once more, but sadly this time, to emphasize that although meat is good, nothing could _possibly_ cheer him up right now.

“You didn’t break up, you know,” Aang says, his eyes pleading with Sokka to be reasonable, “he’s gonna be back, like, soon—”

“—in two _months_ ,” Sokka says around a mouthful of delicious fried potato.

Aang flicks a few errant crumbs off the bar top and hitches an optimistic expression onto his face. “I know it’s hard, man. When Katara was studying abroad…” Aang launches into a long tale of tragedy and woe, involving a lecherous but dashing Italian post-doc, a crate of ill-begotten French wine, and the dangerous thrill of late nights spent in the archives poring over medieval medical texts.

“Yeah, that’s all really interesting, Aang,” Sokka cuts in before Aang can get to the part where he impulsively flies to France to propose and everyone lives happily ever after, “but I think what I need is to get drunk and eat fries.” He waves down the bartender, a woman with enough tattoos and piercings that he’s pretty sure she must be tougher than most hockey players he knows.

And he knows a lot of hockey players.

He orders a whiskey ginger and turns back to Aang.

“You can’t spend the next two months drunk,” Aang rolls his eyes at him.

“Or what?” Sokka narrows his eyes at Aang. “You’ll tell Katara?”

“No,” Aang folds his skinny arms across his chest, “I’ll tell your coach.”

Sokka feels himself pale. Okay, so being drunk for the next few months is totally unrealistic—he has training every day, and he’ll have camp before the preseason—but that is just _low_.

“You _wouldn’t_ ,” Sokka hisses.

“I would,” Aang glares right back. “I won’t tell him it’s because you’re pining for another player, but I would—“

“You don’t even have his number!” Sokka tries to avoid flashbacks to all of the times he’s been chewed out by Coach, and feels a little nauseous.

“You don’t know that,” Aang says, and there’s just enough confidence in his tone that Sokka is sure Katara must have it.

Sokka accepts his drink from the bartender, never taking his eyes from Aang’s, and downs it. “This isn’t over,” he grits out around the bourbon burn in his throat.

“If you say so,” Aang smiles brightly, knowing his battle is won.

A few drinks later, Aang is cheerfully trying to explain the intricacies of yoga teacher certification, and Sokka is morosely picking at a desert involving peanut butter, dark chocolate ganache, and bacon.

“Flexibility isn’t as important as you’d think,” Aang is saying, and Sokka looks up from chasing sea salt across the plate with the tines of his fork.

“I miss the sex,” Sokka says, apropos of nothing. “Flexibility definitely came in handy.”

“Wha—,” Aang splutters to a stop, the maraschino cherry he’d stabbed with his cocktail skewer dripping onto his shirt. “Sokka,” he whispers, scandalized, “are you saying that you haven’t, you know, since Zuko left?”

“Haven’t what? Had sex?” Sokka stares a little blearily at Aang. “Of course I haven’t.”

“You haven’t even,” Aang glances around to make sure no one else is listening and then makes an abortive motion toward his own crotch.

“Oh my God, I’ve totally jerked off Aang, what the fuck,” Sokka snorts, “but you aren’t honestly telling me that satisfies you while Katara is, like, ew, ok, I don’t want to know, never mind.” Sokka shakes himself and tries to un-think that line of questioning.

“I mean, it’s not, you know, the same, but it’s better than nothing,” Aang mumbled, abashed. He chomps down on the cherry and fishes around in his glass for another one. The day that Aang stops ordering his cosmos with eight cherries is the day Sokka starts washing his lucky jock strap.

It’s not a goalie thing, okay, he knows plenty of guys who have similar—you know what, he’s not even gonna go there. He’s trying to be better about mental self-preservation tonight.

“I don’t want to know,” Sokka shakes his head vehemently and pushes his plate away. “I just really miss getting fucked.”

“Oh my God, _I didn’t need to know_ _that_ ,” Aang wails.

“I could help you with that,” chukka guy swivels around on his stool and raises an eyebrow suggestively at Sokka.

“Okay, we’re out of here,” Sokka tosses some money on the bar and stomps toward the door. He is not that desperate.

Zuko may wear crocs, but at least he’s entirely earnest and unironic about it.

Fuck, Sokka misses stupid Zuko and his stupid crocs.

Aang joins him outside a second later, looking harassed.

“He wanted me to give you his number,” Aang says apologetically and hands Sokka a business card.

“Jesus H,” Sokka flicks it into the ashtray by the door. “I’m just gonna go home. Thanks for the night out, man.”

“Any time,” Aang gets on his tiptoes to wrap his arms around Sokka’s neck, and Sokka hugs back distractedly. “At least your team buddies didn’t come this time,” Aang shudders. “They’re so huge. And bro-y.”

“Hey! I’m huge and bro-y,” Sokka says, mock-offended.

“Go get some sleep,” Aang grins at him. “Don’t think about Zuko anymore tonight. He’ll be back before you know it.”

“Yeah, okay.” Sokka gave Aang one more pat to the top of his bald head (Aang squawked indignantly), and then wandered away to call a cab.

 

* * *

 

He’d finally sucked it up and bought a house a few weeks before the end of the season, and it totally had nothing to do with Zuko moving here. Like, it’s a good neighborhood and the houses are beautiful and historic and this one was a steal, considering that it has six bedrooms.

So maybe he doesn’t strictly _need_ that many, but he’ll retire one day, right? And get married, have kids, etc. Theoretically. It’s cool.

But tonight the house feels huge and empty and very dark, and he toes off his shoes in the foyer—trying not to look at the creepy shapes of his sheet-covered furniture—and goes right for the staircase up to his room.

It’s a miracle he even brushes his teeth before stripping to his boxers and dropping onto the bed. He stares up at the vaulted ceiling for a few seconds before he rolls over to plug in his phone and determinedly _not_ think about how he hasn’t seen Zuko in weeks.

He’s just starting to fall asleep when his phone rings. He flails for it, yanks the charger out of the wall, and swipes with his eyes still closed against the glaring light of his lock screen.

“H’lo?” he croaks.

“Sokka?”

He is abruptly wide-awake and lucid.

“Zuko?”

“Yeah,” Zuko says back, and it’s not his voice that hits Sokka like a punch so much as it is the _tone_. It’s higher than normal, breathy, with that whiny edge to it that Zuko always gets in bed when Sokka’s been teasing himfor too long.

“Are you…?” Sokka sits up in bed, slips a hand under the elastic of his boxers to palm at his hardening dick.

“Yeah,” Zuko repeats, sounding embarrassed this time. “I just,” he makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, “miss you and I can’t get off, and I thought…”

“Hearing my voice would help?” Sokka smirks to himself.

“I guess so,” Zuko whispers, ashamed.

“It’s ok,” Sokka croons into the phone. “What did you want me to talk about? The weather? Baseball stats?”

“Soooookka,” Zuko complains, “I need you to be serious right now, ok? My dick is purple.”

That wipes the grin off of Sokka’s face. “That does sound serious,” he admits. “Do you need a sex doctor?”

“SOKKA.”

“Ok ok, I got you,” Sokka says soothingly. “Do you want me to talk to you? Do you want me to tell you all the dirty things I want to do to you? Or…” he has a brilliant idea, “why don’t you tell me all the filthy things _you_ want to do to _me_?”

“Fuck,” Zuko breathes into the phone, and Sokka can hear the distinctive sound of skin on skin, wet and rhythmic.

Sokka hitches himself up higher on the headboard, arranging pillows behind his head and reaching down to skim his boxers off and away. Phone cradled between his cheek and shoulder, he reaches into his bedside table for the lube, knocking aside various other sex toys in his quest.

Hey, it’s been a long few weeks without his boyfriend.

“Is that a yes?” he teases.

“I, um,” Zuko gulps audibly. “Sure.”

“Ok, start talking,” Sokka says bossily, squeezing the tube so that lube drips down his cock, over his balls, an errant trail wending its way toward his ass. He props a knee up and rubs his fingers over the head of his dick, spreading the wetness down over his shaft. He rolls his balls in his hand gently, waiting for Zuko.

Zuko makes a choked, abortive noise.

“Start small,” Sokka suggests. “What do you want me to do right now?”

“I, uh,” Zuko swallows again. “I want you to get your knee up.”

“Ok.” Sokka doesn’t bother to point out that he’s already done this. “What next?”

“Get the lube,” Zuko says, perfunctory. He’s taking the instructional part of this pretty literally. Half of Sokka wants to roll his eyes at this, but the other half is too fondly amused to mind. “I want you to get really wet,” Zuko whispers. “And I want you to get your fingers in it. And then,” he can hear Zuko shifting on the other end of the line, and he wonders vaguely where he is. In bed, maybe. “Then I want you to run your fingers over your asshole. Don’t put them in yet, though.”

Sokka can get behind this plan. He trails his fingers lightly down his dick, then lower, circling his fingers around the tight pucker of muscle below his balls. He shivers, wishing it were Zuko.

“Imagine it’s me,” Zuko says, because apparently he’s a mind reader. “I’m getting you ready, getting my fingers in you, opening you up for my cock. You love my cock.”

“I do,” Sokka moans, taking his words as permission to slip his first finger in, just up to the first knuckle, feeling his muscles flutter and contract around his digits.

“I’ve got my whole finger in you,” Zuko says, “moving back and forth, getting you open for another one.”

Sokka obliges, sinking in up to the second knuckle, running the tip of his middle finger around the rim of his asshole. It’s sloppy with lube, and he slides it in no problem.

“You’re touching yourself,” Zuko rumbles, starting to get the hang of this. Sokka palms his cock again, fist circling it loosely. He doesn’t want to come too soon, especially if Zuko’s just getting started. “You’re moaning like a slut, pushing yourself onto my fingers. I lick you open, just a little bit of tongue, just enough to get you even wetter.”

Sokka groans, thrusting his fingers. The angle’s weird, he wishes he were up on his knees, but Zuko’s voice sounds too good to stop.

“You love when I eat you out, go fucking wild for it, want my tongue up your ass so bad, you could fucking come from my tongue in you, swear to god,” Zuko rasps, and Sokka can hear the obscene sound of Zuko’s hand on his cock through the phone. Zuko’s panting, now, and Sokka’s breathing almost as heavy, wanting him so bad he can taste it.

“You’re begging for my cock, you want me to fill you up and hold you down, fuck you till you can’t walk. Think I’m gonna fuck your mouth first, though. You got a cock there, Sokka?” Zuko asks.

“Uh huh.” Sokka flings his free hand toward the open drawer beside him, lube slick fingers finding a purple sparkly dick and yanking it free.

“Lick it, Sokka, fuck,” Zuko curses, and Sokka can practically see him, the way he must be bowing up from the bed, squeezing the base of his dick so he doesn’t come too soon. Zuko wants this to last too.

Sokka obliges, slurping and moaning pornographically into the phone so that Zuko can hear, sliding the silicone into his mouth so that it stretches wide. He doesn’t feel like deep throating it, but he makes sure he groans loud enough that Zuko can hear it’s muffled, hear that there’s something in his mouth.

Zuko curses again, his voice harsh and a little desperate. “Get it wet, Sokka, it’s going in your ass next,” he warns, and Sokka is so surprised that he chokes a little, then does it again on purpose when Zuko moans at the sound. “You fucking cockslut.” He sounds amazed. “You fucking love this.”

“Mmhmm,” Sokka agrees, recognizes dimly that he must look ridiculous, sound wrecked, but he doesn’t give a shit. His fingers are in his ass, he’s got a dick in his mouth, and Zuko’s voice is dark and heavy with promise in his ear.

“Put it in your ass, Sokka,” Zuko says. Sokka pulls it from his mouth with a little pop, wanting Zuko to hear it, and feels the strand of saliva connecting the cock to his mouth break, pretends it’s Zuko’s precum. He rubs it through the lube on his abdomen and cock, wishes it were cum, loves it when Zuko gets him off and then fucks him open nice and easy in his post-orgasm haze, pushes his dick in with lube and cum to slick the way.

He pulls his fingers out of his ass and chases them with the cock, slides it in without too much trouble. The phone is starting to slip a little, and he hitches his shoulder up, listening to every panting gasp from Zuko.

“You’re so big,” Sokka whines, clenching around the cock, drawing his knees up higher, hooking his elbow under one and using his other hand to press the cock in deeper. It brushes his prostate and he sees stars, feels his cock jump. “Fuck, I could come like this.”

“You touching your cock?” Zuko asks, and he sounds choked, so fucking close that Sokka has to close his eyes, wishing Zuko could come inside him, on him, so he could feel the hot spill of it.

“No,” Sokka admits. “Want me to?”

“No,” Zuko echoes. “I want you to come from my cock in your ass.”

“Yeah, ‘k,” Sokka breathes.

“Think you can?” Zuko’s voice is slurred, his words running together with desire.

“Yeah.” Sokka concentrates on Zuko’s voice, on the cock in his ass. This one has a tilt to it that makes it hit his p-spot without even trying, and the pressure of it there is so _much_. He knows he can come, he’s barely holding on by a thread as it is. “I’m gonna come, so fucking close, fuck.”

The slapping sound on Zuko’s end gets faster, and Zuko’s hoarse breath is sawing out of his chest. He’s practically nonverbal now, a litany of garbled _fuck_ and _Sokka_ and _so close_.

Sokka clenches again, rocks his hips back and forth, feels the string of his orgasm pull taut, burn low in his gut, getting hotter and tighter the longer he holds off.

He can hear the second that Zuko comes over the phone, muffled like he’s biting down on something to stifle the moans, and Sokka can’t hold on after that. The string snaps, the two halves flying apart like shrapnel, nailing him to the bed. He comes like a fire hydrant, weeks of pent up sexual tension released all at once without a single touch, his dick spurting all over his chest. His head slams back against the headboard, and thank god he’s slipped down on the pillows or he’d probably have concussed himself.

He really doesn’t want to take more than one masturbation-induced injury to the team doc.

He comes down slow, anchoring himself to reality by listening to Zuko’s heavy breathing even out over the phone. His limbs feel heavy and loose, sweet and sticky, like he’s full of warm maple syrup. He could melt into the bed and never be heard from again.

He thinks that maybe Zuko’s fallen asleep, but then he hears him snuffle quietly, and the sound of sheets susurrating as he sits up.

“Sokka?” His voice crackles through the line, seeming suddenly loud in the hushed bedroom.

“’m here,” he whispers back, then moves to get up too. He’s sticky everywhere, dried cum and lube making everything feel tacky and sort of gross. “Gotta clean up, shit.”

“Put me on speaker,” Zuko suggests, and Sokka nods even though he knows Zuko can’t see him.

He pads to the bathroom and cranks on the shower, hops under the hot spray and hums discordantly, laughs when he hears Zuko pick up the tune as well.

“I’m not disgusting anymore,” Sokka says happily once he’s out, then thinks sadly of his bed. “The sheets are, though.”

“Go climb into the guest bed,” Zuko says gently, somehow knowing how loopy Sokka is right now, sluggish from the late hour, from the orgasm, from missing Zuko.

“’k,” Sokka mumbles, and walks naked down the hall, leaving drops of water glistening on the hardwood behind him. The guest bedroom that he’s got set up is smaller and but still cozy, the sheets soft and diaphanous, rippling in the current of the ceiling fan above.

“Sokka?” Zuko says his name like a question, and Sokka makes a sleepy sound to make sure he knows he’s still listening. “Can I move in with you?”

Sokka peels his eyes open and stares up at the dark ceiling, at the blades of the fan whirling overhead. He must have misheard.

“What?”

“You don’t have to—fuck, forget it, forget I, shit.” Zuko sounds a little panicky.

“You want to move in with me?” Sokka asks dumbly.

“Yeah, I mean, it was presumptuous, but, like, your house, and…” Zuko trails off, and Sokka can feel his insecurity across the thousands of miles separating Michigan from California.

“Zuko,” Sokka says as firmly as he can manage, “I want you as close as you want to be. Fuck, I want you in my house, in my bed, wherever you wanna be. But I didn’t feel right _assuming_ , like, just cause you’re moving here, cause you’re not moving here for _me_ , I wouldn’t want that.”

“No, I’m not moving there for you,” Zuko whispers, “but that doesn’t mean that isn’t a part of it. I’m in love with you. I want to live with you if you’ll have me.”

“Fuck.” Sokka is too sleep-silly to formulate anything more profound as an answer. “Love you too. Come be my live-in sugar daddy.”

“Jesus H Christ, _Sokka_ ,” Zuko sounds wryly amused, “you can’t just let us have a fucking moment, can you?”

“Nope,” Sokka grins into the darkness. “Miss you.”

“Miss you too. Hope you’re ready to help unpack my U-haul.”

“What are we, a couple of lesbians?”

“That was offensive.”

“You’re offensive.”

“Your face is offensive.”

“That was bad, Zuko,” Sokka says, delighted.

“I try.”

“I know you do,” Sokka grins even wider. “It’s what I like best about you. That, and your cock.”

Sokka knows Zuko is blushing right now, and he’s thrilled by it. Zuko will never live this night down, and he knows it.

“I’m never speaking to you again,” Zuko huffs.

“Naw, now I know you’re such a dirty-talker, you’re never getting out of it,” Sokka smiles.

There’s a soft click, and Sokka is riding too high on happiness to give a shit that Zuko hung up on him. He tosses his phone into the sheets, rolls over onto his side, and falls asleep to the sound of the rushing fan, his slowing heartbeat, and the memory of Zuko’s voice in his ear.

**Author's Note:**

> Shameless self-promotion: [beersforqueers on tumblr](http://omgbeersforqueers.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also, lots of love to my delightful betas!!! I'm so legit! I have more than one and, like, a fandom email. Shit is so cool you guys.
> 
> [Avatarninja](http://avatarninja.tumblr.com/)/[thefiresfromheaven](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thefiresfromheaven) and [Piyo13 on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/pseuds/Piyo13)/[Piyo13 on the tumbles](http://piyo-13.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Fan Art Inspired by this work:
> 
> [Amazing drawings by Tealbruise on tumblr](http://tealbruise.tumblr.com/post/150508900799/im-veeeery-weak-for-omgbeersforqueers-hockey)
> 
> [Some awesome NSFW drawings also by Tealbruise!](http://tealnsfw.tumblr.com/post/150545974260/weeeell-heres-more-fanart-for-omgbeersforqueers)


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